


Recovery Begins

by LuvEwan



Series: Recovery [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt Obi-Wan, Major Character Injury, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, Qui-Gon Lives, Worried Qui-Gon, Written for the QuiObi Writing Discord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuvEwan/pseuds/LuvEwan
Summary: Obi-Wan begins the long, painful road to recovery with Qui-Gon at his side.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Recovery [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862353
Comments: 64
Kudos: 274





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series is a collaborative effort by the members of the QuiObi Writing Discord. 
> 
> Updates are typically posted every other Sunday. This particular story is two parts, with Chapter Two coming next Sunday, 10/3.

——

The grid lit up, an electric-burning blue maze through the darkness. He had fallen asleep, hadn’t he? Fallen asleep when the hyperdrive needed to be fixed. He— _they_ —could not leave before it was fixed. 

He was standing too near to it, though, and so his eyes would not focus. He saw only a small section, with all its precise shapes and components. His brain pounded. Had he not been decent at mechanics? Hadn’t Qui-Gon said as much, before, but with other words….

Capable. 

_Capable._

His head was thick and frustratingly slow but he was certain that was it. _Cape ah blllll_. The syllables repeated as he peered into the bowels of the hyperdrive, squinting at the mess of wires while he tried to remember what the problem had been. 

Broken. Things were broken. 

Abruptly he was studying the hyperdrive from a different angle, the engine room of the starship at a tilt. He peered closer until he was nearly climbing into the thing. 

Blast it blast it what is wrong with it what’s wrong I can’t remember 

generator?  
kidney?  
intestine?  
He tried to pry the panels from the front of the hyperdrive but his hands couldn’t get a grip. No, his hands couldn’t hold on to anything because his arms were too heavy. 

But he needed his hands to use the tools and repair the hyperdrive—

And the hyperdrive was the _heart_ of a ship, not the kidney or intestine. Why had he thought that? He felt it throbbing with life even now, and he just needed to reattach the—the

spinal cord? 

No no no that wasn’t right. 

He reached for a blue wire, pinching it between his fingers and extracting it from between the plates of the hyperdrive. It wasn’t blue, though, but incarnadine, a string of--

_intestine_

_a small portion of that is gone, Master Jinn_

He looked down and saw that the swollen pink wire was coming from his own open gut. 

Looking wildly around the empty room, he tried to call for help. He needed help. Someone else would have to assist with the repair, plug his blood-tinged wire back into the hyperdrive. If that’s what it took, he would do it----he would---

——-

He cried out into the endlessness of the Force.

\-----

_Obi-Wan._

Qui-Gon Jinn’s eyes flew open. He had dozed off, legs and arms crossed, chin resting on his chest. He sat up and wiped the corner of his mouth. Afternoon had still seeped between the blinds when he fell asleep; the room in the Halls of Healing was now bathed in artificial dusk, the overhead lights dimmed and the door to the brighter hallway beyond closed. His heart sank. 

As the evening came, so did the worst of the pain. 

Obi-Wan gulped a breath in his sleep. 

Qui-Gon was instantly at full awareness. His instincts had adapted since Naboo—he was attuned to the slightest change in his Padawan, so recently on the cusp of Knighthood and independence, currently bedridden, only having been stepped down from the ICU a few days before. Now Qui-Gon noticed if the rhythm of the monitors slightly quickened, or if Obi-Wan twisted the thin mattress covering between his fingers. 

There were more changes like that, since Healer Che decided to wind down the sedative and reduce Obi-Wan’s strongest painkillers. Obi-Wan was feeling the wound, the cruel echoes of various surgeries and all the extensive damage done to his body. The healers didn’t want him to continue sleeping through it. 

_“ It is unwise to keep him under indefinitely. He must learn to manage the pain, Jinn. There is no other way. ”_

Che was right. No one could spirit the pain away. Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan’s body ache constantly, and even second-hand it was an overwhelming deluge. In the soft part of his heart that only wanted to protect, Qui-Gon longed for Obi-Wan to be insulated from all of it. How many times had he sat in this same chair and imagined trading places with his Padawan, taking over the agony and obstacles and looming uncertainty, giving Obi-Wan his hard-earned future back? 

Obi-Wan inhaled sharply again. His fingers tensed and flexed. Below his waist, however, there was not a single sign of distress. 

Qui-Gon smoothed the blankets covering Obi-Wan’s legs (no response, but he always tried), then touched his shoulder, his temple, quietly avoiding the ever-present brace which supported Obi-Wan’s tender abdomen. 

Discomfort bled freely along their connection in the Force. Qui-Gon did not shield from Obi-Wan at all now, and his Padawan’s mental walls were badly battered, often nonexistent during deep sleep or surgery. He was grateful for their closeness. Certainly he never would have been able to maintain such a bond with his own Master. Qui-Gon was able to send warm bursts of reassurance and energy, the occasional short message, and sometimes Obi-Wan managed a weak flicker in return. 

The smallest light from Obi-Wan was precious sustenance these days. 

Even better was when he actually lifted his heavy eyelids and looked at Qui-Gon. 

Qui-Gon smiled. “Hello there,” he murmured. 

For weeks, he had only glimpsed Obi-Wan’s eyes during healer exams or a severe pain bout, always so brief, a flash of blue-grey before the sedatives dragged him back under. Qui-Gon noticed that the meek grey half-light seemed to be too much for the younger man. He waved the glow lamps all the way down and Obi-Wan slowly opened his eyes wider. 

“Is that better?”

“Mmm…” The affirmative sound came with difficulty. Obi-Wan’s eyes were wet, the whites clouded and sickly-looking. Qui-Gon remembered bright humor kindled in those eyes, the jokes he could communicate to Qui-Gon with a simple look. 

_We will be there again. I promise you._

He wiped a tear from Obi-Wan’s cheek. “How do you feel?” 

Obi-Wan blinked. “Parts...” His voice was a small rasp. He had not used it for words in a long time. “For hy--hyperdrive?”

A twinge deep in Qui-Gon’s chest. For himself, being marooned on Tatooine with the Queen and her entourage felt like it happened in some other reality, the starship a distant and inconsequential detail. He thought of Obi-Wan standing beside the damaged hyperdrive, brows knit in concentration, whole and strong. 

Some other reality, galaxies and eons away from this one.

“The hyperdrive parts were replaced already, Obi-Wan. And,” he hesitated, “The mission is over.” Qui-Gon tried and failed to swallow the sudden thickness in his throat. “We are back on Coruscant now.”

Confusion flooded the Force, and his cracked lips began to form another word when Obi-Wan seized up, color leaching out of his already pale face. 

Qui-Gon sensed the sharp jolts like cold, stabbing needles in Obi-Wan’s body. “Breathe, Padawan. Breathe.” He leaned in and took Obi-Wan’s hand in both of his own. This was how they spent their days. It was hard to recall a time with missions and training, moving at lightspeed from one planet to another, crisis after crisis. He stayed in this chair in this room and helped his delirious Padawan endure, too familiar with the shape and feel of the cannula taped to the back of Obi-Wan’s dry, slender hand. 

Minutes dragged by while Obi-Wan struggled and moaned, forehead soaked in sweat. He rolled his head sideways on the pillow, toward Qui-Gon. He looked...diminished, too frail and small among the machines and tubes. 

Qui-Gon buried his despair beyond his apprentice’s reach in the Force and emanated only compassionate, healing energy. He squeezed his hand as the awful tension began to ease. “There you go. Let it pass, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s chest heaved from the exertion. His pained gaze was fastened to Qui-Gon. 

The open trust reflected there nearly undid him. Qui-Gon used his robe sleeve to dab at some of the sweat, then brushed his palm across Obi-Wan’s forehead, checking for fever. The monitors would alert the healers to a temperature spike, but it was already a habit for Qui-Gon, ingrained from those first shaky days. 

And he had always been a tactile person. It was difficult to trust machines with the delicate nuances of serious injury, especially his own Padawan’s. 

Obi-Wan calmed under his hand, exhaling slowly. He made as if to shift his body in the bed, but he could not move, and his eyes snapped up to Qui-Gon. He made a weak noise, carefully feeling along the hard lines of the brace. His panic surged. 

With deliberate calm, Qui-Gon rested his hands against the plasteel brace. “This is here to help you, remember? It is temporary, while you are healing.” Inwardly, he winced at the evasive explanation. The healers had told him _temporary_ could mean months, even a year or more. But Obi-Wan wasn’t in the mental state to hear that, not yet. 

Tears continued to stream down Obi-Wan’s face. Che had cautioned Qui-Gon about that as well, how the mixture of medications and sedatives could make it difficult for Obi-Wan to control his emotions. 

Obi-Wan had been so even-keeled, could conceal sadness or anger or frustration into the deepest folds of the Force, a skill mastered when he was still a boy. As a Jedi, his unreadable face and steady voice was an asset, but Qui-Gon did not always appreciate it. There were times he wished Obi-Wan would loosen those restraints and share his feelings with his Master. 

But the tears hurt Qui-Gon to see, like this. He stroked Obi-Wan’s limp hair. The Padawan braid was caught between tubes, and he pulled it free, carefully settling it atop Obi-Wan’s chest. 

Obi-Wan reached for the braid. 

“Still there,” Qui-Gon assured him softly, wanting to add _You are still my Padawan_. He wondered if Obi-Wan remembered all that happened the night of the contentious Council meeting, but he quickly moved on from the thought, perhaps because he didn’t want to know. 

Obi-Wan held the plaited strands of hair, fingers trembling. 

“Are you cold?” Qui-Gon asked. 

His lips parted, but he didn’t reply. His eyes fluttered closed.

Qui-Gon absorbed the disappointment. It was a selfish reaction; Obi-Wan was exhausted, and natural sleep was the best thing for him. He fetched a spare blanket, spreading it over Obi-Wan, tucking it up to his shoulders. He studied the slumbering face, not quite relaxed. He touched the brown freckle on Obi-Wan’s cheekbone. 

Already, he felt far away. 

\----


	2. Chapter 2

\----

Healer Vokara Che stood off to the side with her apprentice, Luminara. Qui-Gon could have easily heard what they said; he didn’t listen. Instead he slipped in and out of a meditative trance, resting in the Force and gathering strength, keeping watch over his Padawan there. 

Che, Luminara and assistant healers visited the room regularly, their Force impressions coming and going like soft, dependable waves. Obi-Wan didn’t seem to register the healers at all. He floated in the opaque waters of medicated unconsciousness. Sometimes he surfaced enough to cry out for Qui-Gon with a clamoring, uncharacteristic panic, and it took long moments to soothe him. 

The pain remained enormous and Che conceded that her decision to reduce Obi-Wan’s pain relievers was premature. For as much as Qui-Gon missed seeing his Padawan awake, he could not bear the keening sounds, or the nail marks Obi-Wan left on the flesh of his own palms. The sensations grew so intense, Qui-Gon could feel them throb brightly from his teeth to his tailbone. 

During the worst night, Obi-Wan became delirious, weeping and shivering.

Qui-Gon was grateful for the reprieve the sleep aids and medications offered. Even a seasoned Master could not live without sleep forever, though he refused Che’s suggestion that he go back to his quarters to rest. “Not yet,” he had told her, unsure when he would be ready.

Obi-Wan was still very reliant on Qui-Gon. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he noticed Obi-Wan slept deeper with some physical contact. Even now, he meditated with his large hand covering Obi-Wan’s. 

Then another hand lightly touched Qui-Gon’s shoulder, and his eyes opened. 

Che stood before him. “Lumi and I have decided now is an ideal time for a spinal procedure. His vitals have remained strong for the last several days and his existing medication regime will be helpful in dealing with the after effects.”

Qui-Gon held her gaze, though he wanted to look away, down at Obi-Wan. He understood that the surgeries were necessary. It still felt like he was subjecting his fragile Padawan to more discomfort and upheaval. His gut churned. 

“I can assure you,” Che said steadily, “He is strong enough for the procedure. And you must remember, it will reduce his pain in the long run. This particular moment in time is difficult, but it is fleeting, Qui-Gon.”

The Master Healer rarely called him by his first name. He felt her warmth and sympathy. He wanted to believe her. 

Qui-Gon cleared his throat. “Has there....been any change with his spine?”

Che’s deep blue likku twitched. “I’m sorry. These are early days. I’ve seen more miraculous things happen in this healing ward, to individuals less determined than your apprentice.”

Qui-Gon smiled. The weight did not shift from his heart, but then, he had not expected it to. “That is hopeful, Master Che. Thank you.”

She returned her slender fingers to Qui-Gon’s shoulder and squeezed. “A healer would have nothing without hope, Master Jinn. None of us would.”

He could not argue, nor could he bring himself to say anything else. He tipped his head in acknowledgement, and Che and Luminara excused themselves, the door hissing closed behind them. 

Qui-Gon sat in the familiar non-silence. He listened to the IV drip and the monitors’ flat beeps. His brain felt bleary, thoughts talking over each other, worry layered on worry. At some point, a healer Padawan brought him a tray of food, and then attached a beige protein pack to Obi-Wan’s feeding tube. He wasn’t sure how the intravenous feeding worked, because Obi-Wan looked like he was wasting away, cheeks sunken and elbows sharp. He regarded his own meal with disinterest. It had long been his opinion that the Healer’s Ward fare was purposefully unappetizing, so as to motivate patients to escape the bland toast and tasteless, nutrition-rich pastes quicker. 

The plan always worked well on Obi-Wan. At seventeen, he had tried to sneak back to his quarters with a freshly broken leg and left eye swollen all the way shut. Qui-Gon snorted at the memory. The boy was certainly headstrong, a trait Qui-Gon was never able to drill out of him. 

On the contrary, Obi-Wan only digged his heels in deeper the older he got. 

He combed his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair, smile fading as a different memory materialized, of his Padawan pursuing the Sith alone, ignoring Qui-Gon’s desperate calls. An anger he could not quite describe burned within him. 

The Force chided Qui-Gon. 

_Anger leads to Hate._

He learned the words when he could barely talk, long before he comprehended their meaning. Lately he felt much like that bewildered child, ruled by emotion. But where had the fire begun? Was he angry at the Sith, at Obi-Wan, or himself? 

Obi-Wan sighed in his sleep, as if he heard Qui-Gon’s thoughts. 

Guiltily, Qui-Gon withdrew from his musings and leaned over Obi-Wan, pressing a kiss to his temple. “All is well,” he whispered. 

\------

It was all murkiness, shadows and chill and dark green water. 

Was he a good swimmer? 

No, he had learned to swim late. Bant teased him for that, and because he always emerged from the water with bloodshot eyes. 

_You’re no fish, Obi-Nobi._

No fish, no fins. 

But did he have legs? His arms were cutting through the water but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t kicking. 

Qui-Gon was already far ahead, gliding towards the clusters of distant light from the Gungan village. 

He opened his mouth to call out to his Master, but choked on the ugly water instead. His Master’s dark cloak drifted and spread like ink before him.

He reached for it. His fingers closed around water, and he sank. 

—--

Obi-Wan sucked in a breath, let it out as a broken sob. 

“Easy,” Qui-Gon touched his shoulder. The healers changed Obi-Wan’s position regularly to prevent sores or blood clots. Today Che wanted him to spend some time on his side and stomach, in preparation for the back surgery. Obi-Wan usually slept through the careful shifting of his body, but Qui-Gon knew it hurt a great deal. 

He tried not to remember the effortless flexibility and grace Obi-Wan possessed mere weeks before. 

His Padawan moaned. “M...Masssss….”

“Almost done,” Qui-Gon said. He tried not to remember, too, how their interactions had changed, how he spoke to Obi-Wan in soft, low tones, almost like he was soothing a child. 

Obi-Wan’s hospital gown was tied in the back, but rode up as he was repositioned, and Qui-Gon caught a glimpse of pale, scarred skin, and the hard glint from the brace. He wondered if the brace would be removed at least for the procedure. 

Finally Obi-Wan was settled onto his left side, soft supports placed around him. Luminara lingered to record his vitals. 

Moisture gathered at the corner of Obi-Wan’s eyes. He panted, his upper body tense. 

Qui-Gon pulled the chair closer. “Breathe. That’s all you need to do right now.”

Obi-Wan blinked and looked at Qui-Gon. His eyes were bright, but glassy, still not as focused as Qui-Gon hoped they would be. “Wh...where am I?”

It was an effort to conceal his sadness and frustration in the Force. “The Healers, Padawan. You were injured.”

“The confusion is normal,” Luminara told Qui-Gon quietly. “This medication cocktail is strong. Even Master Yoda would be befuddled.”

He gave her a brief half-smile. “Thank you, Padawan Unduli.”

“Of course, Master Jinn. Do not hesitate to ask if he needs anything before next check in.” She slipped out of the room. 

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and exhaled, chiding himself. _You teach him to be patient, but have so little patience of your own._ It was true. He wanted the reassurance of Obi-Wan’s quick wit. And he wanted to leave the Theed generator core far in their past. Whatever obstacles lay ahead were preferable to this ongoing limbo. 

Obi-Wan seemed unsteady on his side, so Qui-Gon gently adjusted his right arm to wind around the support pillow. 

“That’s better,” Qui-Gon decided, patting his shoulder. He watched Obi-Wan’s eyes close, and he waited for him to nod off again.

But then his eyes were open, hesitant slits against the overhead lights. “M…..Master.” 

“Yes?”

“Can you...can you ask...her….for my legs?” 

\------

Obi-Wan did not achieve lucidity before the day of the spinal surgery, and Qui-Gon stood back as the mask was placed over his nose and mouth to administer anesthesia. 

He let one of the healer Padawans lead him into the hallway.

There was nothing to do for him. Che had already explained that Obi-Wan would be in surgery for several hours, and then closely monitored recovery after that.

_“Find your bed, Master Jinn. He is safe.”_

\-----

He had not been in their rooms since returning from Naboo. The air that struck him when he opened the door felt different, felt old. 

When they last slept in these rooms---

Qui-Gon shook his head. _Not now_. He didn’t bother flicking on the lights--it was midmorning, and enough sun bled through the blinds---before wandering into the kitchen for water. A tin of tea leaves still sat on the counter. 

Sapir. 

Obi-Wan had brewed him sapir the morning they departed for that final mission. 

He started to reach for the tin, to put it away, but something inside him paused, and he left it where it was. 

\----

He was smart enough to bypass Obi-Wan’s room and go to his own, yet Obi-Wan was everywhere, in the neatly made bed, the spare pair of Qui-Gon’s boots sitting in the corner. Obi-Wan had polished them before they set off for Naboo, a task he had long ago taken upon himself in addition to his other chores. Qui-Gon didn’t care about the state of his boots. Obi-Wan did.

_“They last longer when you take care of them, Master.”_

Boots. Padawans. It was a maudlin memory, and Qui-Gon looked away from the corner, to his bed. His body reflexively ached. The little plasteel chair in the healer’s ward lacked cushion----and he was old. Without Obi-Wan to tend to, he felt the burn of exhaustion behind his Temples, the complaints from his joints and muscles. 

He drew back the covers and sat to pull off his boots. The silence, _real_ silence, buzzed. Odd, to think he spent years alone, and now the quiet apartment made him uneasy. Obi-Wan had never been a rowdy or messy type, but his presence was impossible to ignore, always...comforting. 

Qui-Gon felt for him through their mental connection, but was met with a muted pinpoint of light. He laid back on the bed without changing out of his clothes. 

Another aspect of his life that Obi-Wan wordlessly took over. His Padawan saw that his tunics were sent to the wash, fixed the tears in robes and trousers that Qui-Gon could neither part with nor bother to mend. 

He told himself he had not taken his apprentice for granted. Obi-Wan knew he was appreciated. 

_“Can you...can you ask...her….for my legs?”_

Despite how little and terribly he slept at the healers, it was more than he could sleep now.

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third and final section of this vignette will be posted before next weekend.


	3. Chapter 3

\-----

The procedure was successful. Healer Che commended Luminara for her precision, and Qui-Gon for showering. Rare laughter bubbled between the three of them. He figured Che could tell he had not rested, but the Twi’lek Master left it alone, to his surprise.

Che stood in the hallway, both herself and her Padawan still in their cream-colored scrubs. She crossed her arms over her chest. 

Qui-Gon’s eyes drifted to her gloved hands. Images rose unbidden in his head, of those hands cutting Obi-Wan open--

“Master Jinn,” Che prompted him. 

He blinked, realized he had missed something. “I apologize, Master Che. My mind…is often…”

“Elsewhere,” She offered a sympathetic smile, “Of course it is. I was just saying that Padawan Kenobi has been moved from recovery back to his room. He’s regained semi-consciousness, but the pain was difficult for him to manage. Lumi performed a crystal healing treatment, which seems to have calmed him, at least.”

The Healing Crystals of Fire were reserved for the worst wounds among Jedi. Qui-Gon had not seen a crystal outside of the room where they were stored, nor had he ever needed their restorative powers. Since returning from Naboo, the fire crystals were placed on Obi-Wan’s body at least three times, that Qui-Gon could recall. 

Obi-Wan would have been intrigued by the intimate exposure to such a sacred part of Jedi culture. He liked reading about ancient Order traditions. In fact, there was a specific text Obi-Wan used to mention quite often--what was it called? Perhaps Qui-Gon could jog his memory and track it down, Obi-Wan might enjoy hearing some of it.

Che and Luminara were looking at him. 

Qui-Gon sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can I sit with him?” 

\-----

He half-heartedly hoped Obi-Wan would be awake, but when Qui-Gon entered his eyes were closed, his Force presence muted by the drugs. 

Obi-Wan had been placed on his stomach, a thin white sheet folded at his waist. The hospital gown laid open in the back. 

Qui-Gon noticed a large bacta patch taped over the incision along Obi-Wan’s spine. He had never become accustomed to the sight of his wounded apprentice, not even now. An ache tightened his chest. He ran his fingers through Obi-Wan’s wet hair---the nurses must have bathed him. 

His knees burned, but he could not sit yet. He stood where he was, combing Obi-Wan’s hair, stroking his knuckles down the curve of his neck. 

Obi-Wan sighed against the pillow. 

Qui-Gon felt a warm, lingering dampness in the air. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. For a moment, he willed them both away from here, to somewhere distant and peaceful, like the seaside of Ergeshui, where they had spent a few days between missions when Obi-Wan was promoted to his senior apprenticeship. 

“If I could have foreseen...” He began to whisper, but the idea was too painful, too bitter to finish anyway. He traced the constellation of freckles across Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades. “Master Che says you are doing so well. I’m not surprised. You have always been the strong one between us.”

He waited a beat. Normally, Obi-Wan would come up with some cheeky retort, unable to resist the opportunity to needle Qui-Gon, equally unable to absorb a compliment from him. But only the monitors replied, with their passionless, measured beeps. 

Qui-Gon sighed, settling into the hard grooves of the chair. Luminara returned some time later to check Obi-Wan. After weeks of this, there was an ease of understanding between him and the healers, and he didn’t feel the pressure to ask useless questions or make small talk. 

He saw her begin to lift away the edge of the bandage, and he closed his eyes. He thought of Anakin, wondered how he was doing in the crèche. The boy was friendly and outgoing, but his youthful brightness masked a deep vulnerability, the scars of Tatooine. 

It occurred to Qui-Gon that the meaning of his life now was to heal and protect, as well as teach. Obi-Wan. Anakin. He could not rescue them from their traumas, the way he sometimes dreamed. 

But there was tomorrow. And the day after. He could be a guiding light through the darkness they had yet to face. 

Despite the lingering uncertainties surrounding the future, Qui-Gon felt buoyed by his ruminations, and straightened in the chair when Luminara finished. 

She cleaned her hands, then came back over where Qui-Gon sat. Her eyes were always brighter, more open than her Master’s, but then, she had not seen as much. “He’ll properly wake sooner rather than later. There might be some disorientation. I’m sorry to say there could be significant pain.”

Qui-Gon nodded. Pain was the constant of their life now, and he thanked Padawan Unduli. 

Then it was just the two of them, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. The other constant.

\-----

If he could keep his eyes open long enough, he would be able to see the creature moving toward him. But he was very tired, the kind of tired that made his limbs and brain sink into sludge.   
Something was wrong with his eyes when they did open. He saw the creature through a sparking screen of red. 

He wondered where his Master was----was it too late---would---

A shaft of red light struck him through. He screamed.

\----

Qui-Gon had fallen into a thin half-sleep, but jumped immediately when he heard Obi-Wan’s gasp. “It’s alright,” the words tumbled out of his mouth. His heart thumped in his ears. 

Obi-Wan remained on his stomach. He was weeping softly. It was not a sound Qui-Gon had heard often, not in all the years they had spent together. He massaged the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck. “I’m here.” 

He realized Obi-Wan was still asleep. Tears slid from the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes. Qui-Gon reached out to him in the Force but their connection felt muddled, likely from the anesthesia. He remembered Luminara’s warning about disorientation. 

“Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan, you are in the Healer’s Ward. You’ve had surgery on your spine.” 

Obi-Wan didn’t respond. His breath hitched and he moaned.

Qui-Gon glanced up at the door, deciding whether he should flag down a healer. If Obi-Wan was in horrible pain--

He felt a tug at his sleeve. Obi-Wan’s fingers were curled around the fabric of the robe, clutching and pulling him in with his meager strength. Qui-Gon closed his hand around Obi-Wan’s hand. He sensed the desperation and fear in his apprentice. 

Then a searing flash of red cut across his mind’s eye. 

Was it an errant image from Obi-Wan’s thoughts, or his own? The duel had been awash in red, saturated by blood and in every dream since Theed Qui-Gon saw the energy wall, the Sith’s tattooed face, the swinging double blade. He had been given time to soberly process the events; Obi-Wan had not. What nightmares did Obi-Wan wade through, trapped there by the sedatives and his ailing body? Did he relive that day, over and over? Is that why he cried? 

Qui-Gon felt like a band was tightening around his neck. Suddenly he wanted, needed Obi-Wan awake, here with him instead of wherever he might be. 

He gently pressed Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Padawan, please. I’m...wake up now.”

Obi-Wan made a muffled noise, turning his face into the pillow, a bittersweet impression of his much younger self, who used to burrow under the covers when it was time for morning meditation. But rather than grumbling about lost sleep, Obi-Wan was whimpering. 

Qui-Gon crouched down in front of him. He wiped the tears away as quickly as they came. “Obi-Wan, it’s alright. Look at me.”

Obi-Wan said something unintelligible then. He was struggling to open his eyes. Qui-Gon watched the lids tremble and he caught a brief flicker of pale blue. Obi-Wan grabbed for Qui-Gon’s sleeve again, a guttural groan passing between his lips. “S...st...ay.”

Qui-Gon stroked his brow with his free hand. “Of course. Of course I will stay.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I am here with you, and Healer Che and Luminara are here to help too...you are safe, Obi-Wan.”

“Stay...” Obi-Wan murmured. “S...safe.”

Qui-Gon nodded, and rested his head against Obi-Wan’s. He stood on his knees at the side of the bed. When Padawan Unduli returned, she moved around him, but never said a word. 

\----

If Qui-Gon thought they had sidestepped the emotional and physical effects of the surgery, the next days proved him wrong. Obi-Wan stayed awake for longer periods, but was obviously not himself. He careened between extremes: anxious and clingy, blunt and short-tempered, irritable and withdrawn. 

Through the unpredictable mood swings, Qui-Gon knew he must be steadfast in offering his support. When Obi-Wan refused a sponge bath from the healers, Qui-Gon volunteered to take up the task. Master Che had talked to Qui-Gon about patients needing choices, and Qui-Gon kept that in mind, asking Obi-Wan’s preferences for soap, water temperature.

Obi-Wan snapped at Qui-Gon to look away from his bared body. Qui-Gon recognized Obi-Wan’s anger as fleeting, and rooted in confusion and helplessness, a deep embarrassment of being exposed from a young man who had always been modest. So Qui-Gon calmly agreed, diverting his gaze while cleansing Obi-Wan as best he could. Obi-Wan reacted better to his hair being washed, even expressing gratitude when Qui-Gon suggested reweaving his Padawan braid. 

Caring for the braid was a sacred duty, and Qui-Gon treated it as such, taking his time removing each thread. The freed strands of hair were kinked. He marveled at the length, remembering the braid’s stubby beginnings. 

But beginnings inevitably made him think of endings. The Council had yet to come to him with questions about Anakin’s training, or what lay ahead for Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon was reluctant to hasten those conversations. 

Obi-Wan had not been told about the severity of his injuries. That would be the first of many difficult talks. Qui-Gon dreaded Obi-Wan’s reaction. 

_What will I say?_ He wondered. Already he felt as if he had betrayed his Padawan--by not explaining everything immediately, by allowing him to be so terribly and permanently hurt by the Sith in the first place. But he could not wallow, and his rational self knew Obi-Wan was not in the position to digest the information now. 

He lathered and rinsed Obi-Wan’s hair, then combed and separated the sections for the braid. He had done this for Obi-Wan a handful of times during his training, an intimate thing Obi-Wan would allow from no one else. 

Obi-Wan was relaxed, his earlier frustration drained away. Qui-Gon saw that some color was returning to his cheeks. He still looked pale and thin, but no longer alarmingly bloodless. He stared at Qui-Gon, focused, eyes the clearest they had been since his return to the Temple. “The Sith is dead?” He asked.

Qui-Gon touched the soft cleft in Obi-Wan’s chin. He acknowledged the anger rising inside him, anger at the vicious creature. But anger had no place here. Not with Obi-Wan. “Yes.”

They shared a long look between them, then Qui-Gon plaited the sections of wet hair, tying off the colored threads in the order they had been earned. He helped Obi-Wan slide his arms into a fresh hospital gown. The basic exertion left Obi-Wan panting, his forehead beaded with sweat. 

Qui-Gon brought him cool water to sip, and sat in the plasteel chair again. 

Obi-Wan’s head was propped up by a pillow. Qui-Gon sensed his growing exhaustion, which came on so quickly, ensuring their lucid moments together were too short. “I don’t...I don’t know what I remember,” he rasped. 

Qui-Gon smiled. He wiped some water from the corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth. “Your mind will recover in its own time. Trust in the Force, my Padawan. It will see you through this. And whatever shadows might remain in your memory, I will do my best to shine a light.”

Obi-Wan reached for his hand, and they sat in the little room, fingers laced together. 

Qui-Gon let himself feel grateful for the closeness they shared now, a silver lining among all the darkness.


End file.
